The Surplus Girls' Orphans

by Polly Heron

  ‘You picked up something off the bench and put it in your pocket. Show me.’

  Jacob froze. Then, chewing his lip, he drew out a sixpence. ‘I never pinched it, sir, honest. It were just…lying there.’

  ‘I’m not accusing you of anything, lad.’ He let his manner soften. ‘It must have fallen out of that man’s pocket when he sat down to read his paper. Look – he’s about to disappear down the road beside the old graveyard. If you run, you’ll catch up. I’ll watch to see you’re all right, then you must go straight back to the orphanage. Understand?’

  ‘But… Yes, sir, Mr Abrams.’

  The boy’s face twisted, showing his internal struggle, but Aaron couldn’t let him keep the sixpence. It wouldn’t be right.

  He strolled along the Green, watching as the lad jogged away, neglecting to look before he crossed the road, increasing his speed to catch the man. There was a small pantomime, denoting explanation; Jacob pointed back at him. The man glanced Aaron’s way before practically snatching the tanner from the child’s hand and marching on his way. Charming! No sign of a thank-you, no ruffling the cap on the boy’s head. Still, it took all sorts.

  The end of her first day was in sight and it hadn’t been the unqualified success Molly had hoped for. The embarrassment of sitting at top table still made her squirm. Neither had she had the opportunity to make peace with Carmel. On top of that, Mrs Wilkes hadn’t exactly welcomed her with open arms when she ventured down to the kitchen to check the tradesmen’s bills.

  Be positive. She had done some typing and found where Miss Allan kept everything; she had gone through the accounts and read some of the children’s files, which had made her feel she had more of a grasp on matters; and she had removed some ancient, faded, handwritten labels from various drawers and shelves and replaced them with fresh typewritten ones. She didn’t want to step on Miss Allan’s toes, but surely she wouldn’t object to that.

  Hearing footsteps on the stairs, she picked up the afternoon’s mail, ready to hand it to Mrs Rostron, but it wasn’t the superintendent who appeared at the top of the staircase. It was Mr Abrams, carrying a pair of oil-lamps.

  To her surprise, he placed one on top of the filing cabinet, making room for the other on a small table, his shoulders set rigid beneath his jacket.

  ‘As requested. Demanded, I should say.’ He turned to face her. His expression was set rigid too. ‘In future, Miss Watson, if you have any complaints, I’d be grateful if you would, A, come to me directly instead of voicing them to Mrs Wardle; and, B, ask politely instead of whining.’

  ‘Whining?’ She gasped, but it wasn’t breath that seared the back of her throat. It was outrage. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said a new voice.

  Mrs Rostron stood at the top of the stairs. Nothing about her moved, not so much as the faint lingering swish of her skirt. She hadn’t just this moment arrived on the landing. Had she heard every word?

  ‘I’ll be about my business.’ Mr Abram departed, his boots striking the wooden treads squarely as he ran down.

  Mrs Rostron stopped in front of the alcove. ‘What was that about?’

  ‘I don’t know. He just appeared with these oil-lamps.’

  ‘Had you complained to Mrs Wardle?’

  ‘I would never do such a thing. I don’t know how – oh.’

  ‘Explain.’ Not ‘Would you please explain, Miss Watson.’ Just ‘Explain’.

  Humiliation squeezed her ribs, but she looked the superintendent in the eye. ‘Mrs Wardle was here with her friend; and the friend – Mrs Hesketh – remarked on how dark the alcove is.’

  ‘And you took it upon yourself to agree.’ Mrs Rostron shifted her shabby old leather briefcase from one hand to the other, as if to make the point that she had worked hard today even if Molly’s time had been frittered.

  ‘Mrs Wardle apparently went to Mr Abrams.’

  ‘Mrs Wardle is St Anthony’s official visitor and as such enjoys a privileged position. While extending every courtesy to her, you shall refrain from expressing personal opinions in her presence.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Rostron.’

  The superintendent headed towards her office. Molly puffed out a small breath. Thank goodness she had remembered to remove the tea-tray and put the chairs back. Was Mrs Rostron aware that Mrs Wardle helped herself to the office in her absence? Or had it never happened before? Had Mrs Wardle taken advantage of Molly’s newness to take a liberty Miss Allan would have prevented?

  At six o’clock, Molly fetched her things from Mrs Rostron’s office, taking them to her desk to put them on. She slipped on her linen jacket, positioning her cloche hat with the aid of a small speckled looking-glass she had come across in one of the drawers. This evening she would ask the Miss Heskeths for additional lessons in the use of the telephone. Telephone lessons were taken by Miss Patience and involved holding pretend conversations about deliveries that were late or invoices with mistakes, but it wasn’t more of those that she wanted. The ladies possessed a replica telephone that had been constructed for use in an amateur stage production. What Molly wanted was practice at dialling and holding the pieces correctly and not speaking into the ear-piece. She had never used a telephone until she started at the Board of Health and she had placed a call only once. She didn’t want to make a clot of herself here.

  As she descended the stairs, the sound of the children’s chatter grew louder, a rounded, cheerful sound made richer by the dining room’s warm acoustics. Was Carmel still on duty? It would feel good to give her a farewell wave over the children’s heads, but it was out of the question after this morning’s misunderstanding. That was something she must do tomorrow, get back on Carmel’s good side. In fact, a fresh start all round would be no bad thing. She had to show the staff she was one of them and not Mrs Wardle’s tame follower.

  Crossing the boys’ playground, she rounded the wing that formed a boundary between the boys’ and girls’ playgrounds – and here was her opportunity to make good on her resolve to have a new beginning. Mr Abrams was ending the day as he had started it, chopping and sawing the ivy that clung thickly to the wall.

  ‘Mr Abrams, I’m sorry you were put to the trouble of finding extra lamps. It was nothing more than a chance remark on my part. I never imagined Mrs Wardle would act upon it.’

  He regarded her. Having worn his jacket to venture upstairs, no doubt out of respect for the proximity to Mrs Rostron’s office, he had shed it to crack on with this dusty outdoor task, which was probably more demanding than it looked.

  ‘Thank you. I didn’t expect an apology – especially after the way I tore you off a strip. That was rude of me and I’m sorry.’

  There was a gruff note in his voice, but instead of putting her off, it made her feel drawn to him. She had taken him by surprise and she rather liked that. The strong, lean features that had been uncompromising during their confrontation now assumed a different cast, genial and kind. There was a light in his brown eyes that suggested warmth. Then his expression altered subtly, becoming serious, distant even.

  ‘You’d best take care what you say to your friend in future.’

  ‘My friend?’ Good heavens, did he think…? She started to say, ‘Mrs Wardle isn’t my friend,’ but a cheery voice cut across her. Norris!

  ‘There you are, Molly. Look, here’s your knight in shining armour, come to escort you home at the end of your first day.’ Sweeping off his trilby, he executed an exaggerated bow, bending from the waist and all but sweeping his hat across the ground.

  ‘How did you know I was here?’ Molly asked.

  ‘Aha.’ Placing his trilby back on his head, Norris tapped the side of his nose. He wasn’t going to make a secret of it, was he? And expect her to wheedle it out of him? ‘I went for a pint with Harry last night. Afterwards we bumped into Dora on her way home after you left her. Good girl, Molly, for having an early night.’

  Good girl? She wasn’t a pet dog. ‘There was no need t
o come and meet me.’

  ‘Of course there was. I can’t have my best girl walking home on her own on her first day, can I? What sort of fellow would I be to permit that? I’m better husband material than that, I hope.’

  Husband material? And with Mr Abrams standing there listening as well. She had to get Norris away from here before he could make even more of a show of her.

  Norris stepped towards her, offering his arm. Instinct prodded her, urging her to step away, but that would have looked so singular in front of Mr Abrams. She couldn’t have him witnessing her and Norris tussling over her arm. If Norris was here one moment longer, she would be obliged to introduce them and she didn’t want that.

  Grasping Norris’s arm, she spirited him through the gates and away up the road. How smart he was in his suit and trilby, with his striped tie and black lace-ups. How proud she used to feel to be on his arm. She should still be proud to be seen with such a well turned out man, even if they were no longer an official couple. Norris was dapper and personable. Not like Mr Abrams, with his rolled-up sleeves and collarless shirt. Norris wouldn’t be caught dead without a collar; and if he went out this evening, he would change his trilby for a natty straw boater with a coloured band. It would come as no surprise if Mr Abrams wore that old cloth cap even for church.

  ‘It was well worth finishing early at the office, to have the honour of seeing you home,’ Norris was saying, ‘and in particular to have the pleasure of your taking my arm. I found that most gratifying, Molly, and I shall tell your mother so when I see her.’

  ‘Please don’t say anything to make people think—’

  ‘Think what? I can’t help what others think, especially when they’ve got your best interests at heart.’ When she tried to withdraw her arm, Norris clamped his elbow to his side, trapping it; her heart bumped. ‘There now, don’t take on. You can’t blame your family and friends for wanting what’s best for you. It would be a rum do if they didn’t.’

  This time she did wrench herself free. ‘I’ll be the judge of what’s best for me.’

  ‘You’re tired. You’ve had a long day. Give me your arm and let’s be friends. You owe me that, at the very least. You can’t turn your back on me, not after I’ve been loving and faithful for so long.’

  Loving and faithful. It was true. Unwillingly, but with a sense of the inevitable, Molly offered her arm. Had his always been this fleshy? She had never noticed before. Norris wasn’t plump, but just now, with her hand resting in the circle of his arm, she had an impression of…flesh. And another impression: the work-hardened muscle in the caretaker’s arm. What was she thinking?

  ‘I arranged to finish work early especially to see you on your first day,’ said Norris.

  ‘That was a kind thing to do.’

  ‘I didn’t do it out of kindness. I did it to impress you with my continuing devotion.’

  ‘Norris, don’t.’ This time, when she withdrew her arm, there was true resolve in it. What on earth had she been thinking, letting him have her arm? Never mind being courteous for the sake of her family. How about their showing some courtesy to her by accepting her decision? How about Norris accepting their engagement was at an end?

  ‘Don’t what? Don’t love you? Don’t hope to win you back? I’m not made of stone, Molly, and I tell you here and now: I’m not going to give up. If you like, I can provide a list of the people who are cheering me on.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  PRUDENCE HAD LOOKED forward to Saturday afternoon all week. Her long working week, both in the office and teaching in the evenings was over, and Mrs Atwood and Miss Watson now both had unpaid work to go to, just for a few hours, so they could use their new office skills for real. Not so long ago, Patience had turned squeamish at the very thought of approaching local businesses to seek placements for their pupils, but now she was used to it and turned up trumps time and again. For Mrs Atwood, she had found a place in a domestic employment agency, typing, filing and so forth, while for Miss Watson, there was the opportunity to work in the office of a hotel in Seymour Grove, with the promise that if she did well, they would let her work on the reception desk, under supervision, of course.

  Not only did Saturday afternoon mean no work and no p.g.s, it also, today, meant no Patience and no Lucy. Prudence couldn’t recall the last time she had had the house to herself. Normally a busy person, who frowned darkly upon others’ idle hands, she sat in her armchair, allowing herself to sink back against the cushion, hands resting lightly on the embroidered arm-caps that protected the front edges of the chair’s arms, and allowed the sense of stillness to sink into her bones.

  She had always been content in her own company – well, there had been one time in her life when she had shed her solitary nature, like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, but that had turned out to be a calamitous error and she had quickly retreated into her shell. Talk about mixing your metaphors.

  The doorbell rang. Her fingers tightened over the arms of the chair, pressing into Patience’s exquisite crewel-work on the cotton arm-caps. She released her grip. Mustn’t crease the cotton.

  What if she ignored the doorbell? Who could it be, anyway, on a Saturday afternoon? They weren’t the sort to have friends dropping in unexpectedly. They weren’t the sort to have friends dropping in, full stop. Scraping by on very little income had always precluded the possibility of entertaining, even on a small scale, not so much as a bridge night with supper or singing round the piano followed by refreshments. Or would such ways of passing the time be considered old hat these days?

  That was the sort of thing that used to take place under this roof when she was a girl, when Mother was alive and Pa went out to work. It was only after Mother died that things had changed. Pain twisted inside her chest, a remembered pain from long ago. She hadn’t understood back then that Pa should have taken responsibility for keeping their household functioning. He should have ordered the coal, and had that leak in the scullery roof attended to, and found someone to mend the garden gate when one of its hinges dropped; but these tasks had fallen to her, then and ever afterwards.

  Pa did employ a daily cook, but only until Patience finished school, whereupon she took on the mantle of housewife and had lived her entire life within these four walls. Worst of all, Pa had never returned to work after Mother’s funeral. At first, it had seemed right that he should be at home, grieving. Goodness knows, they had all missed Mother dreadfully.

  At what point had Prudence understood that Pa had inherited not only the house but also Mother’s annuity? It certainly had never been explained to her when she was young. Well, one didn’t explain things to children, did one? The terms of Mother’s annuity were that it had to pass to her children, which meant Prudence and Patience, not Lawrence, because he was her stepson. But, being children, she and Patience weren’t old enough to receive the income, which therefore had been paid to Pa to help him bring them up until they married or attained the age of twenty-five, whichever came first.

  Whichever came first. As if the one that didn’t come first was bound to come second. Had there really been a time when she and Patience had believed that both milestones lay ahead of them?

  No matter. The point was that the annuity had gone to Pa’s head. He had decided to become a scholarly gentleman of independent means. Independent means! As if the annuity was worth thousands instead of a mere hundred or so.

  And it was worth less than that these days, its value having dropped like a stone during the war. Goodness only knew what their future held. Prudence dreaded retirement. Not only did she earn less than a man in the same job, but her pension would be correspondingly small too. How were they to get by? For years they had existed on a reduced level, with no indulgences permitted – barring, of course, the single colossal indulgence of Pa’s idiotic way of life.

  It was harder for Patience than it was for herself. She was forged from stronger metal, but Patience would have adored a bit of financial leeway, enough to provide a few creature co
mforts and a modest social life. As it was, their one real friend was Miss Kirby, who, after visiting them every Friday evening for years, now, because of their teaching commitments, came on Saturday evenings instead for conversation, a few hands of whist and a little light refreshment. As reduced as their own circumstances were, Miss Kirby’s were even more so and they mustn’t overdo their hospitality lest they embarrass her.

  The doorbell sounded for a second time. Prudence fetched a sigh and pushed herself to her feet, reluctant to drag herself away from the unutterable luxury of being alone in the house. Someone tapped on the side pane of the bay window. What cheek! Her gaze flew across the room – Evelyn. Which meant Lawrence as well.

  ‘Lucy isn’t in,’ she said before she had fully opened the front door.

  ‘We haven’t come to see her,’ said Lawrence. ‘We’re here to speak to you and Patience.’

  ‘Probably Patience more so than you,’ Evelyn added.

  ‘She’s not here either.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to invite us in?’ Lawrence enquired, shifting testily from one polished shoe to the other.

  ‘Normally you march in without being invited,’ Prudence retorted.

  ‘As I am entitled to do, since this is my house.’

  Waving Evelyn ahead of him, he crossed the threshold. Prudence led the way to the sitting room, feeling the invasion more keenly than usual. Her precious, solitary afternoon!

  Seated on the sofa, Evelyn picked up a discarded library book.

  ‘Lucy’s?’ she asked. ‘She does love her romances.’

  Evelyn’s normally complacent features wobbled before settling into lines of sorrow. Prudence felt a tug of sympathy. It couldn’t be easy for Evelyn, knowing that her daughter had chosen to live elsewhere for the time being.

  ‘She’s fine,’ said Prudence. ‘I don’t know what upset brought her here, but there’s no sign of it now, so maybe she’ll be ready to return home soon.’

  ‘I hope so.’ Evelyn’s voice was throaty.